Category Archives: travel

I know what you’re thinking. “Oh shit, rampage today, to the bomb shelter!” Meh, I beat up a couple kittens already, things are fine. But now with a clear head…

Admittedly, I have been drinking a bit of haterade lately and decided to skip town a couple weekends ago. What better way to cheer yourself up than to drive stupid far and see something you’ve never seen before?

Nothing, that’s what.

I took off early on a Saturday morning, around the asscrack of 6am. It’s not a tough drive that early, since from San Diego you just hit the 8 and barrel through trying not to make a wrong turn into Mexico, settle in a shark town, and marry a burrito.

Things that don’t suck: Dogs

Somehow I didn’t become Mrs. Erdmann-Burrito and things were going fine. Was amped on coffee, blasting Bad Religion’s Suffer, Bella was giving me that face you see over yonder.

Then just past Yuma I started hearing an odd noise. It was a kind of fwap-fwap-fwap-fwap sound like an angry grandmother had gotten under my car hood and was beating my fan belt with an oven mitt. I was literally in the middle of nowhere on that dead stretch between Phoenix and Yuma. The temperature gauge was telling me it was 110 degrees out already.

What’s a woman to do when she has no knowledge of car guts, zero cell reception, and an unwillingness to cooperate with the people of the world for a day?

Keep fuckin’ driving.

Which I did by turning up the music as loudly as possible to drown out the disturbing sound. I was moderately aware this might have been the last song I’d ever hear before being exploded into an oblivion, so I’ll have you know it was – say it with me – Niiiirvana.

No, but really. The fuck are my marbles?

Then suddenly the fwap-fwap jolted and started to sound like marbles. “Oh my dear sweet Moses…” I muttered to Bella the co-pilot. Turning down the music I just listened to the marbles. Out of the corner of my eye I imagined Tootles from Hook running alongside my car shouting, “You’ve found my marbles! You’ve found my marbles!” and I couldn’t help but giggle at the image of that fat old sod’s toothless grin of excitement.

Anyway, I was terrified for a while but kept going because I didn’t know what else to do, so up went Negative Creep again. Suddenly the marbles stopped and I don’t know why, but then everything was seemingly back to normal.

Weird ending to that anecdote but stick with me here pals…

I made a couple stops on my 9-hour drive to the northeast, but nothing significant to spend time detailing here. I did drive through an impressive lightning storm just past Flagstaff, shot the shit with a biker gang at a random gas station, and stopped at a nearly abandoned gift shop to snag some sort of momento from the excursion, settling on silver buffalo earrings.

I dunno, what do you buy in Arizona? I decided it’s buffalo earrings?

But then I made it. I got to my destination and had no idea what to expect. My friends from Arizona told me I was insane to go at that time of year, telling me it was monsoon season or too hot or blah, blah, blah. I didn’t care and needed to see something beautiful.

This came on as I was parking. Found that amusingly appropriate.

I parked, got out of the car. Grabbed my phone, dog, and a bottle of water.

When I first peered into the Grand Canyon, my heart stopped. I had found myself on the South Basin and in an area where there was no guard railing. Stepping onto the flat rock, I leaned forward to see the infinite drop into the great unknown, down into a sea of rocks cut from water ages ago. The basin was so deep hawks were soaring in and out of it as though the floors a mile below were as great a journey as any they’d ever done.

I walked around amazed, stunned, happy to be alone and without cell reception. Stopping to open that bottle of water, a young boy of maybe 8 or 9 paused a pace or two in front of me and stared at my dog. He was a chubby little thing, dripping with sweat as he had clearly been there for a significant part of the day exploring. His curly red hair was matted down with an American baseball cap, his outfit tied together with a blue and black flannel.

“Is he friendly?” he inquired in a thick English accent, pursing his lips nervously as though he realized he had spoken out of turn.

“Oh yes, she’s very friendly,” I said kneeling down to point her in his direction. He hesitated before kneeling down as well, then held out his hand to pet the 5-pound beast. Bella, not really a beast at all, licked his outstretched fingers in greeting…yet most likely due to their being covered in salt.

“He likes me!” the boy cried. I laughed and let them continue to interact, as he began to tell me about his trip here with his parents. “It’s my second time in America,” he went on. “The first time we went all over California. This time we are going all over Arizona.”

The chap was eager to talk and I was content listening, so we carried on for a good while about how he’d gone to a baseball game, went kayaking, saw parks. I realized the time was ticking and while I felt bad for leaving, excused myself eventually to continue my mission to stare out into the great abyss.

Me: YAS! Bella: Meh.

I met quite a few more people due entirely to my approachable pet. At one point a small African girl waddled up to me. I’m horrible with children’s ages but she was a tiny thing. Was able to talk…maybe 3? 4? She was itty bitty and still going between babbling and coherent words, but I could tell from her outstretched hand her purposes here were to pet Bella.

“Doggy?!” she kept gesturing inching closer. Down again I knelt, and this time picked up the pup so the girl could get a better look. She squatted down to admire the animal for a moment, then popped back up again in a squeal, “Mama!” turning around. Approaching were her parents accompanied with a baby, trailed by a couple more pairs of adults and a pack of other children, all of whom could possibly be related.

My time of solitude, I could tell, was going to be over for a little while.

I smiled warmly and offered Bella’s fur for their petting pleasure for as long as the children were interested. I nodded that she was a chihuahua, admitted I was American. I let them know the dog was a girl and that she was 7-years-old.

The adults were respectful of my time and after a bit began shuffling the children away, “Say bye, bye to the doggy!” the mother kept saying in a dialect of African accent. Once they were walking away the father turned around to mouth a silent, yet clearly grateful, “THANK YOU!” as he carried the infant and held the toddler’s hand on their way.

I spoke to some Italians, some French, even got to practice a little German. Apparently the Grand Canyon is an international station of culture, and I’m a little embarrassed I had no idea but thrilled with this accidental foreign adventure.

Eventually I was able to wander back to that first ledge I had found, and climbed just a little way down the rocks to hide from people and to hang my feet just over the ledge. After securing Bella’s leash on a nearby branch, I laid down on the warm rock, allowing the earth to comfort my back sore from the long ride, watching the sun settle in the sky to dazzle with both fading and glowing light.

There is truly something magical about the Grand Canyon. Something healing. Maybe it was the genuine interaction with strangers. Maybe it was the great abyss. Whatever it was, it was exactly what I needed and I felt restored at least to some capacity that day.

Unwillingly, I eventually peeled myself from the rock of solace, and Bella and I began our ascent back to the car. I was lucky to have some friends in Phoenix who were happy to host my weary head for the evening. Bummer though is Phoenix is a good 3.5 hour drive from the Grand Canyon. So, the pup and I stopped at a gas station in the little tourist village just out of the canyon before we headed back south.

After stocking up on coffee, a cheese stick, pretzels and a water, I hopped in the car and got ready to go. While I was buckling my seatbelt, I noticed a man about my age in the passenger seat of the car next to mine furtively looking in my direction. I kept about my business politely and started the car. It was still a trillion degrees out so I rolled down the windows to let out some fire air, and proceeded to put the car in reverse.

As I was pulling back, he apparently had noticed my front bumper and leapt out of his seat, “WAIT!” I wasn’t moving quickly but slammed on my brake.

“Uh oh…” I stammered leaning my head out of the window. It was only then that I remembered the incident a few hundred miles ago. I parked with the car exactly where it was, halfway pulled out of the parking spot, and jumped out. He knelt on the ground and pointed out that my mud flap, or whatever that mud guard is, under the carriage of the engine had come off. It was completely dragging and caught on the asphalt as I was pulling away. As we were discussing this, his similarly aged friend walked up and caught up on the conversation.

“Do you have any tools?” said the first one. We’ll call him Austin because he had a touch of a southern accent.

“Nope,” I said with blended confidence and sheepish guilt.

“Well, all we need is a screwdriver,” said the other one. His accent was far thicker so we’re going to call him Buck.

Austin, Buck and I figured out a screwdriver wasn’t going to work because the screws securing the gigantic bastard of a flap was in the shape of a star. The men fumbled around their truck to find anything that could work, and eventually fashioned a makeshift hold that would get the flap to stay put at least until I could get to Phoenix.

Austin, Buck, and the car that’s had enough of me.

While Buck was on the ground under the car working out the solution, I profusely thanked Austin for the help.

“No, no trouble at all,” he smiled, shrugging dutifully. “It’s the right thing to do.”

Before I drove off they checked to make sure it would stay, then off our separate ways we went. They were on their way east as they were on a cross-country trip, which I had learned after laughing at their gushing over seeing San Diego, LA, and the like.

Happy to be back on the road, I drove as quickly as I could to beat the nightfall. 3.5 hours is a pretty long time so I didn’t win, but fortunately I got at least 1 of those hours out of the way in the dusk. Listening to some Neutral Milk Hotel around hour 2, my phone was apparently back in reception as it had started ringing.

“JONI!” yelled the voice on the other line. “How much longer ‘till you’re here?!” The excited chirp was my host in Phoenix, who bubbled on about how excited she was to see me, filling me in on the fun party she had been to but was ready for me to get into town.

“What can I have ready for you?” she asked assertively. This wasn’t an, ‘Um, well, do you think there’s something you’d maybe like?’ No. She was determined to make sure exactly what I wanted was there and prepared. “I’m heading to the grocery store now so tell me what you want, lady!”

We settled on pizza and beer. When at last I arrived, the house was refreshingly cool. Her dude announced the pizza would be ready in 7 minutes, then handed me a cold libation the second I sat down. We all proceeded to spend the following hours laughing about stories from that day and that year. And yeah, I almost took out one of those pizzas entirely by myself.

The first statements I opened this post with are still totally true. People disappoint you. They break your heart. But luckily, there are things in this world that exist for the seeming sole purpose of cheering hearts easily laden.

Great abysses. Children and their wonder. Kind, benevolent strangers, including those who just want to talk to you, and those who want to make sure you’re going to be alright.

But most of all, when you accept the fact that people are horrible, it magnifies the power of those who blow past that fact and decide to be wonderful anyway. Both strangers and friends. They overpower whatever baggage they are dealing with, and find the energy to make sure your journey is a little easier. While I accept that people are terrible, I also accept that people can break through that terrible. And it is those people who can heal the damage the awful ones cause, giving us a valid reason to keep exploring, and keep on looking for those marbles.

You’ve heard all about it. Your Facebook feed is flooded with football chatter no matter what day or time it is.

The world has been taken over by World Cup.

Now here in the United States, the contest of nations is regarded a bit differently than in other parts of the planet.

One reason behind this is the oversaturation of our sporting market. We have everything – basketball, baseball, golf, hockey, (American) football, NASCAR.

Comparatively, soccer is brand new here. Many Americans have already chosen a sport they watched their parents cheering for since they were small. Take a look at when other American team sports were founded:

1869 – Major League Baseball (MLB)

1917 – National Hockey League (NHL)

1920 – National Football League (NFL)

1946 – National Basketball Association (NBA)

1948 – National Association for Stock Car Racing (NASCAR)

Major League Soccer (MLS) was only founded in 1996, and is therefore the awkward teenager slowly creeping into American sport conscious. This is a challenge when you are a nation filled with not one other national sport, but many.

While the national sport selection can be overwhelming, we haven’t even talked about university allegiance. The alma mater of college goers and their kin is often revered as much if not more than your state’s national team – which only further complicates fanaticism and may be enough to satisfy an American’s sport appetite.

But dare I say that we have room for more sporting love. I mean we have hot dog eating contests, clearly we aren’t full to sport capacity. Why isn’t there more space for soccer?

Another problem Americans have is the argument that soccer is a “weak” sport. I grew up listening to my brothers call soccer a “sissy” sport, and the NFL is the “real” football. Independent of my own family’s chauvinism, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been watching a match and some (normally older) dude laments the dramatic foul-inducing fall strategy of soccer players.

“Oh get up why don’t you?! See Charlie, this is what I hate about soccer. They fall over like a bunch of pussies.”

By the way, BUB, the same thing happens in most other professional team sports. I don’t want to sit here and slam our sports in the USA, but I do want you to think about how each American sport has its own weakness. Many of our sports require much more padding, less running time, and therefore can result in fewer serious injuries.

Our thirst for violence is something we should address. Hockey is a clear example of a seeming need for violence in American sports that isn’t as necessary in the rest of the world. Fighting is heavily encouraged in hockey, what may be the most violent team sport. But that does not mean that sports who discourage fighting are weak.

This points to much more pervasive issue – the overriding American belief in a need for hypermasculinity in American sports. I hear constant accusations at soccer players aimed at removing masculinity and replacing with femininity, which for some stupid reason means they are weak. Cristiano Ronaldo for example is a talented world class player who also happens to have well manicured eyebrows. The comments I hear about them are laughable. Who cares if he looks good and does something to keep it that way? Yeah he’s arrogant but the guy is one of the best footballers in the planet. Paint them eyebrows with pride.

Ronaldo isn’t the only one who takes heat based on how he looks, and it’s time to lighten up and stop dismissing the sport based on how the guys look. A pretty boy or a handsome defender can be just as tough as their less aesthetically pleasing counterparts.

Finally, soccer wasn’t born here. Americans get really excited about sports that were founded here and I hate to say it, soccer isn’t just our sport. It is the world’s sport, loved by everyone. That is certainly not a reason to ignore it, and actually a bigger reason to love it.

You need to care about World Cup because we can’t be a nation of ignorant, xenophobic Americans. Here are some reasons you should care about World Cup, and you’ll be glad you did:

1. It’s On All the Time

Think of the depression that came over you after the season finale of Game of Thrones. You have another 10 months to wait before you know what’s going to happen to [avoiding spoiler] after you saw [something happen] from [no I’m not giving it away]. But with World Cup there are games on EVERY DAY. And not just every day, multiple times a day! The excitement is non-stop and if you have to work during one of the matches, it’s OK – another one is on its way.

2. USA Has a Real Shot

We haven’t always been very competitive, but we are this time. We have a new coach since our last World Cup appearance in 2010, Jürgen Klinsmann, former player and coach of Germany’s national team. He shook things up a bit in the US squad, putting Clint Dempsey (striker for the Seattle Sounders) and midfielder Michael Bradley (Toronto FC) in leading positions to spearhead the USA charge. Other notables include Graham Zusi (Kansas City) with two World Cup assists and seasoned goalkeeper Tim Howard (Everton FC) who has kept the defensive game for the States alive.

We walked into this World Cup assigned to Group G, ominously nicknamed the “Group of Death.” All of the groups are comprised of 4 teams, and ours was packed with talent: Germany, Portugal, Ghana and the United States. This is one of the toughest groups in World Cup and to the surprise of many, the USA stands a great chance moving on to the Round of 16 intact.

3. The Scenery

Some of you will say, “I just don’t like sports.” Ah HA, that’s no problem for you with soccer. The talent in soccer is not only athletic, but also quite scenic. Note: I’m not one to suggest any level of objectification, ever. These players are well respected in their own right and just happen to, well, take a look below and you tell me that this isn’t the handomest game in the whole wide world.

Now hey, this is an equal opportunity blog. There is plenty of World Cup visual entertainment for those who fancy the ladies. And by the way everyone – you’re welcome.

4. There is No Better Time To Show Your American Pride

As Americans, the international community has accused us of many things. Arrogance, loudness, rudeness. United States Americans – THIS is the time these qualities will play to our extraordinary benefit. We have been training for this our whole lives!

No one knows better than you how to fashion a make-shift Old Glory, no one can cheer as loud as you, and NO ONE knows how to have more fun. Now is the time to show the world you love your country and are not afraid to prove your blood runs red, white and blue.

I am a lover of all nations but there is only one I call home. The country we were born in and the country we were raised in is to me the greatest on earth. This is the one sport the rest of the world watches and it’s our turn to make a mark. It’s time for us to crack those Budweisers, bust out the body paint and make capes out of American flags. Let’s show the world how wonderfully obnoxious, proud and supportive we are of this great nation on the world’s greatest competitive stage. USA!!!!

Recently Qatar, a largely Islamic country in the middle east, launched a campaign targeted at Western tourists. It’s simple really, they are asking tourists to wear clothes more in keeping with traditional Qatar dress code observant of the Islam religion.

I can’t decide how I feel about it. It’s pretty passive aggressive, right? But tourists are indeed guests and should be observant of culture…I keep going back and forth arguing with myself about it. So I recall a similar experience of my own.

When I was in Germany studying abroad a few years ago, I was traveling with a sizeable group of Americans. We were visiting the branch of an international corporation in Munich and were briefed on how German business meetings typically run. Be on time, don’t be annoying, and certainly don’t be a moron. Not too different than American business meetings, other than a colleague of mine screaming at me across the room to, “SIT DOWN.” Like in the middle of the meeting when I was just getting a glass of water. I’m pretty sure Germans are cool with water getting.

Jerk.

Anyway as the meeting concluded, one of the German gentleman offered our group nuggets of cultural advice as we were about to hit the streets on our own. I presume he was trying to help us fit in and avoid unpleasant altercations. He began by explaining how Germans are inordinately respectful of rules – from the obedient silence on the trains (pictured below are my friend and I NOT TALKING on a German train…seriously, dead silence) to the absurdity of even the thought of jaywalking.

He continued painting a picture of what people like him have noticed about touring Americans. Keywords like, “loud,” “rude” or “you all say please too much,” littered descriptions he personally had with Americans. Finally, and he seemed uncomfortable in doing so, he asked us to consider dressing more conservatively.

In sum he closed, “Just…behave.”

Behave. An interesting choice of word in my opinion. Behaving seems like an absurdly relative term, which is why I think he spent so much time providing context of how NOT to “behave.” Yet I chew on this term of behaving and I consider other contexts wherein I should behave. At work, at happy hour, in bed. You know…the old Austin Powers request to bewitching go-go dancers, “Oh, beHAVE!”

The request for us to behave is seemingly quite common. So when I stumbled upon the new Qatar ad, I didn’t know how to react. Apparently fellow readers of the article were conflicted too. The top comment on the particular Facebook posting at 848 likes was: “So the Muslims should not wear the Burka and hijab when they go to Europe!”

Followed secondly at 507 likes was: “You travel to a country, you respect the culture. Simple.”

Below that were primarily frustrated Brits lamenting being told what to wear. I hate to say there were some pretty repulsive reactions, and no I do not condone hatred toward a religion or culture under any circumstances.

There is indeed a lot of emotion surrounding what a person wears. I suspect it is because it is a deeply personal choice and a representation of individuality. Your clothes are your statement to the world, and your perception of that statement is wildly different than others. For example, I was at a party the other weekend and there was a gentleman in attendance I was interested in getting to know. He wore the now trendy hipster 50’s attire, complete with a fedora, button down shirt, and fitted shorts. His arms and left leg were fully decorated in what I can only assume were carefully chosen tattoos.

One of my male companions noticed my gaze at this fellow. He gave his cocktail a swirl allowing the ice cubes to clink, getting my attention as I looked over at his direction. He lowered his sunglasses down his nose raising an eyebrow. “What?!” I asked as though I was caught stealing.

“Joni,” he judged, “He looks homeless.”

After I was able to collect myself from the immediate fit of laughter, I dismissed the comment but decided I didn’t feel like the effort. Maybe my friend dissuaded me, but I still enjoyed the scenery from time to time as the evening continued.

This is a pretty simple phenomenon to explain – past experiences dictate how we perceive and accept behaviour and dress. My friend thinking the hipster was homeless and my perceiving him as handsome are simply examples of how we view the world based on our backgrounds. In the neighborhoods I lived in in Seattle, I’d say most of the men donned full sleeves of tattoos. So that’s comfortable, familiar, and even attractive to me. They tell a story and help me understand the man right off the bat. To my friend…well…homeless people have tattoos, people living in homes don’t. Simple as that.

The big pandora’s box is, I think, that cultural dress and behaviour are mostly dictated by religion. When I was at the Vatican, the bastards wouldn’t let me walk in the building unless my shoulders were covered. Oh by the way, it was over 100 degrees that day and the halls of the giant Mecca were insufferably packed with humans. You even had to cover up climbing the 900,000 stairs to the top of the basilica. I got around it by tying a cardigan around my shoulders preppy style…but STILL.

German culture is primarily protestant, with a heavy cultural background of Lutheranism (Martin Luther was a German, in
case you didn’t know). My German ass understands the Lutheran religion and way of living, so I really wasn’t offended when our German host asked us to shut up in the trains and to behave ourselves. My colleagues, especially my Puerto Rican pal, were less convinced.

I’ll admit that I don’t understand Islam. So to me I’m a little more offended by Qatar’s ad in the same way people who don’t understand Catholicism or Lutheranism are offended in Italy and Germany. Fortunately I have absolutely zero desire to visit the Middle East, so that will not be an issue anytime soon. But the thing is, Germans and Italians were pretty covert in their requests of telling me what to do – there were no signs anywhere telling me what to do or wear. I knew what to do given simple hints from locals.

So honestly, I think it’s too much for Qatar to pay for a campaign telling tourists what to do. A little too close to 1930’s propaganda if you want to get serious about it. Although I do find a lot of humorous enjoyment at the clarification, “LEGGINGS ARE NOT PANTS.” Good! Pants are the worst, I don’t understand why anyone ever wears pants.

At the end of the day, standards of dress and behaviour are a matter of coming together in tolerance of both individuality as well as cultural observance. I get that there is a fear of Western culture taking over the world – but what if people like wearing what we wear? The world evolves but that doesn’t mean that culture is gone just because people like tank tops in a country where the mean temperature is 90 degrees (and it’s going to be 117 degrees there later this week…A HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN). I am admittedly western biased, but if people are more comfortable in tank tops and leggings, I say let em.

And if you want to wear a full sleeve of tattoos, well, I’ll make sure to tell my friend you aren’t homeless.